An Investigation in Magic
by Dobby's Socks
Summary: Harry Potter is chosen to compete in a deadly tournament and he demands to know who did it, for what purpose, and how. With hardly any clues, no clear motive, and any number of suspects, who better to answer him than the world's best and only consulting detective? Set during GoF, rating might change but unlikely.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello all. Perhaps starting a new story is not conducive to updating the other ones, and perhaps this is a silly idea, but I found this written down amongst some of my other work. So I figured I'd just post what I have and see what you guys thought.**

**How I explain the discrepancies in time? Well…I ignore it, and claim magic as my excuse. I suppose I could use the BBC versions of the characters, but when I had written this the show hadn't aired yet, and I'm not rewriting. Plus the timelines still wouldn't match up anyway. Oh, and this was also written pre-Game of Shadows, so until I actually bother to rent that movie and watch it, there will be no spoilers or cannon facts from it.**

**Anyway, I'm just going to let you guys read it. Thanks for giving me your time, and enjoy.**

**Dobby's Polka-Dotted Sock**

**Chapter One**

"Harry Potter!"

At this new turn of events, Harry felt almost weak at the knees, but somehow he managed to find his way down the aisle—which seemed much, much longer and filled with suspicious, hostile faces—past Dumbledore who for once was not smiling, and into the antechamber off of the Great Hall. What followed next were countless minutes of accusations, arguments, and aggravation, all going nowhere. He just couldn't take it.

"A small '_investigation_' isn't going to cover it! Look, if- if someone's trying to kill me like Professor Moody says, then I want to know who. I want to know why this is happening to me." With the appearance of the Dark Mark and the Death Eaters, Harry just didn't feel safe. It wasn't just him and a weakened Voldemort or a blinded Basilisk anymore. He needed help, and he knew it enough to say so.

"Al- alright, Mr. Potter, if that's the way you feel," Ludo Bagman said, glancing around at the other adults, some of whom seemed appeased and others, like Snape and Karkaroff, still sulky. The former Quidditch star turned to Mr. Crouch. "I could talk to Amelia, maybe pull some people off of looking for Bertha. Merlin knows that's going nowhere…"

The two Ministry officials walked away, continuing the discussion, and the Headmaster of Hogwarts took this as the signal to dismiss everyone else.

OoO

Back in the common room the twins had begun a celebration in his honor, which he quietly asked them to disband. He figured his outburst in front of the Heads and some teachers of the three premiere schools of magic in Europe, two Ministry Department Heads, and his fellow champions was enough yelling for one day. Harry told his Gryffindor tower mates that to the best of his knowledge he did _not_ put his name in the Goblet and that hopefully some sort of deep, thorough investigation would be made into how it happened.

However, he did not expect his best friend to not believe him.

"Come on, Ron! What's it going to take? I wasn't even that interested in the tournament before! So—" he stopped short of saying "So stop being such a prat." Harry had promised to himself to never call Ron that name, not after seeing Fred, George, and Ginny use it time and time again to tear down their brother's self-confidence.

He recollected his scrambled, frantic, worry-filled thoughts, but couldn't really think of anything and Ron's back was still facing him. He was running out of steam. So Harry gave, saying, "The only way I could've entered myself would be if Moody _Imperio_'ed me to do it," and threw himself onto his bed.

"And anyway," he said, more to himself, "he would have _Crucio_'ed me after for not being able to resist the Imperius Curse, and I figure I'd remember that, wouldn't I?" He heard Ron turn to look at him, but didn't bother to open his eyes.

"Would Moody do that, you think?" He asked.

"I dunno," Harry answered tiredly. "He's brilliant, but nutters, so maybe."

"And Dumbledore drew the Age Line, but he's nutters too. Maybe it only keeps you out if you're underage and trying to put your own name in. Reckon Colin or Dennis would put your name in just to get some good pictures?" Harry scowled and opened his eyes, expecting to see a taunting, challenging light to Ron's face, but all he found was his best mate grinning at his own words. "I reckon I believe you, mate," Ron said.

"Thanks, Ron," Harry returned with a smile of his own.

OoO

The next morning found Ludo Bagman in the office of Madam Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Normally to see a Department Head an appointment had to be made, but things were always changing in the DMLE, so there wasn't really a set schedule.

"What brings you here today Ludo, don't you have a tournament to be overseeing?" the Madam asked in her brusque way.

"Well, that's the thing Amelia, the tournament's a little—"

"I read the papers today, I've heard all about your Fourth Champion."

"Oh good, then you probably realize the importance of it being Harry Potter?"

"Of course; he's a national icon."

"Precisely! Well, Mad-Eye's got it into the boy's head that someone's trying to kill him. Ridiculous, really. All the same—" Madam Bones interrupted him a second time.

"He may be paranoid, but Alastor's usually spot-on about these things. Frankly, I'm inclined to agree with him."

"Right," said Ludo, beginning to become nervous at the prospect of someone actually trying to kill the Boy-Who-:Lived. Perhaps he should place his bet for Diggory or Krum… "Anyway, he wants to know the how-and-why, so if you could—"

"Wait, he's asked for an investigation? A formal investigation?"

"Yes, he has," he replied, perplexed at her intensity. "Why?"

'_Cause there's nothing Fudge can do about it.'_ Amelia thought privately to herself. Instead she spoke aloud, "Then I'd be happy to help."

"Oh good," he said again, "I'm sure it won't take much to settle the boy, Amelia. I was thinking maybe pull a couple of people off the Bertha search, it's really not going anywhere—"

"Sorry, Ludo," she said, once again cutting off his babble, "but that goes against policy and common decency. Besides, I'm a little curious as to the how-and-why myself, maybe as much as Mr. Potter. I think I know someone else who would find this very interesting as well…" She trailed off in thought before giving a decisive nod. "Yes, I do believe I've got your man, Ludo. Let me get in contact with him, see if he's free."

"He's really that busy?" Ludo asked, surprised.

"Busier and better than that pack of Auror trainees you wanted. I'll send a notice to your office once I talk to him. But while you're here, I happened to run into a few goblins at the Cauldron and—"

"Afraid I don't have time to chat, Amelia, have a nice day!" And with that her visitor, after cutting her off for the first time, quickly vacated her office and, indeed, the floor.

"I was just going to tell him a joke I heard, and it wasn't even a bad one. Hm…" She stuck her head out of the office doorway and stopped the nearest Auror. "Dawlish, get me an update on the Jorkins Search and send a message to requesting Trainee Tonks to stop using herself as a Missing Person's poster in magical areas. Pull the file on Bagman and see if he's had any dealings with the goblins lately. But don't bother me for anything but an emergency for an hour, I'll be on the phone."

"Yes, Madam Bones."

As a pureblood witch, she didn't use the phone often, but sometimes in this line of work a telephone was needed. She checked the file, verifying the number, and dialed. After three rings it was picked up and a woman spoke on the other end.

"221 Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson speaking."

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson, I'd like to speak to a tenant of yours, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"I'm not sure if he—"

"If you could, tell him it's Madam Bones and that it is very important."

"Very well, Madam."

"Sorry to bother you further, but is Dr. Watson in as well?"

"He is, Madam."

"Excellent, this will go much more smoothly then."

"I agree whole-heartedly, Madam."

**So that's the first chapter. I'm hoping I've piqued your interest. What will happen when Homes and Watson get to Hogwarts? And how do they know about the Wizarding World? I've still got a good chapter's worth written down so expect an update shortly.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Like I said, here's the next chapter. Enjoy!**

**Dobby's Polka-Dotted Sock**

**Chapter Two**

It was a week later that the two new guests arrived, and though they were clearly of British origin, they were the strangest yet. Harry was called along with the other champions to a meeting with the judges. Snape and Moody showed up as well, perhaps inviting themselves, Harry thought. This was dispelled, however, when one of the new men spoke.

"It appears as though we are all reconvened." He had dark hair and eyes, which seemed to take in everyone and everything at once. They rested on Harry a moment, then away.

"I'm afraid the Minister is unable to make it, but as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Headmaster of Hogwarts I welcome you on his behalf, Mr.—"

"Sherlock Holmes, Chief Warlock," he interrupted, "this is my partner, Dr. John Watson." The man in question, slightly taller and with fairer hair, shook hands with Dumbledore and introductions proceeded.

"Alastor," said Holmes.

"Ah, Sherlock, how've you been holding up?"

"Very well, my good man. I must admit, Mr. Potter," and here those sharp, intelligent eyes were turned on him again, "I was pleasantly surprised when Madam Bones called me on your request. I have not worked a case involving magicals in a quite a while, not since…" he trailed off, looking to Mr. Crouch who Harry now noticed seemed rather uncomfortable. Dr. Watson cut in, shooting what could be called a warning look at his companion.

"What Holmes means to say is he'll get right to work on this case and we'll all know who did this soon enough." This set most of the adults off yelling accusations again, but they were cut off by a loud bang of Mr. Holmes' cane.

"Right," he said, perfectly calm and lighting a pipe. "Before speaking to any of you I will of course need to examine the Goblet, Age Line, and the paper with Mr. Potter's name. Headmaster?"

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. Everyone, you are dismissed."

Harry exited behind the three men and happened to overhear Mr. Holmes.

"Hoodwinked magical artifacts, ex-Aurors and Death Eaters, rumors of Riddle's return, and a revived deadly tournament, eh? The game's afoot, Watson."

OoO

"Former Death Eaters?" Ron asked later in the common room. They and Hermione were the only ones still awake due to the mysterious request in Sirius' letter that Harry had received that morning.

"That's what he said. He was telling the other one."

"What are they like?" Hermione asked, clearly interested in the strangers themselves. "You know, I'm pretty sure I've heard of Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson in the Muggle paper. They're quite good at solving cases."

"Well they can't be Muggles, they wouldn't be able to be here," Harry reasoned, "though I didn't see either of their wands. But, they dressed just as old fashioned as anyone else, without the robes. And Mr. Holmes knew Moody."

"Maybe they're Squibs, like Filch," Ron suggested. "But anyway, former Death Eaters! I wonder who? I bet it's Snape—and Karkaroff, too!"

"Oh Ronald," Hermione started in a scolding tone, "just because you don't like Snape and Karkaroff's from Durmstrang—"

"Actually, Hermione, Ron hit the nail right on the head," said Sirius' head from the fire. All three jumped and Hermione gave a stifled shriek.

"Sirius!" Harry hissed, getting down in front of the fireplace. "How did you—"

"I'm borrowing this house's Floo connection; came back to England as soon as I could—and don't scold me, Harry, I know what I'm doing. Besides," the ex-convict continued earnestly, "your safety is much more important than mine. So Holmes and the good doctor have made their return, huh?" He asked, changing topic.

"Wait, you know of them?" Harry asked.

"Oh yeah, those two worked pretty closely with the Aurors when I was there during the war. He's brilliant, Holmes. Tracked down what happened to your uncles, Ron, along with loads of other stuff.

"Yes, a little too brilliant; he started snooping around Crouch, probably knew about Barty Jr. long before the rest of us. But Crouch all but banned him from the Ministry. Course, the others realized what a mistake that was soon after, but by then it was too late. Both Holmes and Watson are muggleborn; as far as I know, they just continued their practice in the Muggle world."

"Barty Jr.?" Hermione questioned, having held onto to that piece of information.

"Crouch's son. He turned out to be a Death Eater, but was caught and brought to Azkaban after me. Holmes was onto him long before that, I'm sure everyone sees that now. But Crouch didn't appreciate him poking around. After he and Watson were kicked out was when the Bartermius Crouch Reign of Terror began. They were rounding up Death Eaters and suspected Death Eaters and charging them with anything, then throwing them in prison. His son being caught ruined his career, that's why he's stuck in the Department of Transportation or whatever office he's wallowing in. Barty Jr. got a trial though, unlike me."

"_What_?" All three friends exclaimed, loud as they dared.

"I didn't get a trial. Sometimes I wonder if things would have turned out differently if Holmes had still been around. Some of them, like Malfoy and Karkaroff, wouldn't have gotten off by paying bribes or giving names. And Dumbledore would probably have had to explain what makes him trust Snivellus so much to keep him out of Azkaban."

Ha! I was right!" Ron said triumphantly, smirking in Hermione's direction.

"Yes, I suppose," she admitted, pursing her lips.

"It was good seeing and speaking to you three, but I need to get moving," Sirius said at last. "Harry, stay safe, and keep together. Trust Sherlock Holmes; he's odd, but always right. Stick with Mad-Eye, too, brilliant Auror." And with that, his godfather's face was gone from the flames.

"We should get to bed," Hermione said decisively, and the three departed for their dormitories. But Harry couldn't help but wonder as he drifted off to sleep, would things be different for Sirius, and him, if Sherlock Holmes had never left?

**Short, but it's the best stopping point. I've got one more chapter pre-written for you all, and then I'll have to work from there. I hope you're enjoying the story, and please review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Wow, two C2s, three favorites, and five alerts? Thanks so much! This chapter finally gets into some proper interaction between characters, so I hope you all enjoy it!**

**Dobby's Polka-Dotted Sock**

**Chapter Three**

Harry was pulled out of a rather uncomfortable Potion's class in order to attend the Weighing of the Wands ceremony, and it was there that he met yet another strange person, though he personally felt he could have gone without meeting this individual: Rita Skeeter, a nosy reporter who Harry remembered being mentioned by Mr. Weasley over the summer, had an odd fixation on him.

She was just reaching forward to take his arm and drag him somewhere for an exclusive interview when she was stopped by the butt of a cane being shoved practically into her face. On close inspection, Harry noticed that it was a rather sturdy cane, more so than his Aunt Marge's, and that the end was rather blunt, which gave him the feeling that being a weapon was a secondary use that was frequently employed. Either that or the owner really enjoyed banging it to get people's attention.

"My apologies, Madam, but it is my policy that any details will be released to the press after the case is solved beyond a doubt." Turning around, Harry confirmed that the voice belonged to none other than Mr. Holmes. The man let his cane rest once more at his side, and Skeeter seemed to collect herself.

"Well, well, Sherlock Holmes returns at last. I'm sure you don't remember me—"

"On the contrary, Miss Skeeter, I assure you that I shall always remember the reason I enacted that policy to begin with." Though he gave a, rather strained, smile the reporter looked as though she had swallowed too many of Professor Dumbledore's lemon drops at once.

As though summoned by this thought, the Headmaster along with the wand maker Ollivander, arrived and called everyone to order. Previously unnoticed by Harry, Dr. Watson made his presence known by grabbing Holmes by the arm and leading him to one side of the room, much like an irate mother would to a child who was being a nuisance to another adult, while Skeeter returned to her cameraman on the other side. The proceedings went fairly quickly, but it was after Rita Skeeter left that things got interesting.

"Headmaster," Holmes interrupted as the older man was dismissing people, "if I may, I'd like to request that this distinguished wand maker examine the wands of everyone that was present at the meeting that took place after the champions were selected.

"It would help to have this information for the investigation," he added, smoothly cutting through the protests being raised. Not wanting to seem like they were holding up the investigation, all the judges lined up before Ollivander.

Dumbledore dismissed the champions, but Holmes said, "Mr. Potter shall stay, if you please. I'll be needing him later."

So Harry watched as the judges had their wands examined by Ollivander and the specifications were written down. No sooner had Holmes taken the parchment, he strode from the room, commanding, "Watson, take the wand maker to Professors Snape and Moody; same procedure," and with that was gone.

A moment later he stuck his head back through the door. "What on earth are you waiting for, Mr. Potter? There's much to be done."

With a start, Harry followed after the once more gone detective. He had to walk rather quickly to keep up. It was somewhere in a secluded corridor on the seventh floor that Holmes turned sharply and wrenched open a door.

The shared living quarters of Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson looked relatively normal enough and clean. Until Holmes opened a door into another room and Harry stepped into chaos.

Books, papers, files, and various other items lay in haphazard piles on every available surface, even the floor, some in danger of toppling over. In front of the window was a table with some strange apparatus that looked like it should belong to a chemist. Some chairs, including two sofas, were scattered about, and the couch was used as a bed judging by the tangled blanket covering it. It was quite obvious that no House Elf had set foot in the place since the occupant had moved in.

Harry waded through the clutter, but bumped a small end table and bent to straighten the non-moving portrait of a rather pretty woman who was elegantly dressed. It was to a large wooden desk untidy as the rest, with drawers half open and seeming to burst with papers, that Holmes led him. From within a small drawer he withdrew two small pieces of blank parchment and placed them on top of a paper stack along with a bottle of ink and quill.

"Now if you please, Mr. Potter, write your name on each of these parchments, first with your right then with your left." Harry did as told, and then handed the parchments over to Holmes. Yet another drawer was opened, and he withdrew the parchment with Harry's name that had come out of the Goblet. Holmes studied all three, then discarded the one penned by Harry's left hand. He examined the other two closely.

A short while later, Holmes declared, "A perfect match. Clearly, both were written by you." Harry's heart sunk; he really was going to be found guilty. "This, of course, proves that you are not the culprit." His heart leapt right back up and his head snapped up to look at Holmes.

"But, how—"

"Nothing has been done to disguise the handwriting on either of these parchments, indicating innocent intentions of the writing. The original parchment and this one I had you use just now do have one clear difference on first glance, however." Here, he looked expectantly at Harry, as though waiting for him to come up with the answer on his own.

"Er…" Hastily, Harry dropped his gaze to the parchments on the desk, searching for the difference.

"The original parchment's side and bottom edge have been ripped, while the other sides have all been cleanly cut." Harry jumped at the new voice behind him and turned. Apparently, Dr. Watson knew how to pick his way through the mess as neatly and quietly as Holmes, for he had not noticed the man's approach.

"Excellent observational skills as usual, Watson," Holmes remarked.

"Thank you, and here's those wand details you wanted." Holmes started to take the paper from his partner, but the taller man held on tight. "Ah, ah. I'll take my cane back, Holmes, it's not a toy."

Holmes practically pouted, but exchanged the cane for the requested information. "Ah yes, the more details the better, Watson, especially in a wizarding case." He placed the parchment from Watson in a folder and continued. "Now, cut edges would indicate a purpose such as placing it in the Goblet. The ripped edges mean it was torn from a larger piece. Therefore, it was stolen for this purpose. Watson, we shall go speak to all the faculty first. Mr. Potter, you may go back to class now."

OoO

"It was Snape! It was Snape this time for sure," Ron vehemently said as he paced back and forth in front of Harry and Hermione after class in the Gryffindor common room.

"Really Ron, we've always been wrong about _Professor_ Snape. And you're basing you accusations once again on the flimsiest of evidence. Mr. Holmes said he was speaking to _all_ the faculty, and then who knows?"

"Alright, alright, Hermione, then maybe it was Karkaroff, he _was_ a Death Eater." Hermione threw her hands up in frustration.

"Let's just get to dinner," Harry suggested, standing up and leaving through the portrait hole.

As they became part of the crowd on the Grand staircase, he thought about the stolen parchment with his name that had entered him in the tournament. A previously graded homework assignment, a discarded letter, all these things and more could have found their way to the culprit. It could have been anything…or anybody.

**Ok, that's everything that I have previously written. But some good news; this afternoon I rented A Game of Shadows and watched it so that I could make this story more accurate to the movies. So, assume that this takes place after that movie, and Holmes has revealed himself as being alive. I'm not really sure where Mary is, or why she let John come with Sherlock to Scotland, but she just did. Moriarty is dead, as is Irene though it pains me to do so. If you think of anything else that needs to be cleared up, let me know in a review. However, I'd also like to hear what you think about the first three chapters. Thanks so much for reading, and please review!**


	4. Chapter 4

**I suppose I'm just in a Sherlock Holmes mood. Lucky you guys. Thanks again for the favorites, alerts, and C2s, but please—I really want to know what it is that I am doing right!**

**This chapter switches to Watson's POV and starts the day Madam Bones calls with the case. I hope that this doesn't confuse anyone. Enjoy!**

**Dobby's Polka-Dotted Sock**

**Chapter Four**

He had been sitting in his old chair in the lounge scarcely five minutes and Gladstone was already unresponsive on the floor. The poor dog always accompanied him on these visits, however; practically insisted upon it. So Watson merely watched his former partner pace about the room.

Holmes' latest obsession seemed to be faces judging by the countless pictures hung on the walls, strewn about the floor, and even tacked to the ceiling. The photos seemed to be taken from anything and everything: newspapers and magazines, missing person ads, and even wanted posters.

"We know that Moriarty's man—one of your own profession, Watson—had perfected the art of facial replacement before his demise at the hands of his employer," the detective was saying in full lecture mode. "If it were to fall into unscrupulous hands again—perhaps it already has—it could bring in a new wave of crime. Imagine, if you will, kidnappers disguising their victims, escaped criminals blending back into innocent society, maybe even—"

Unfortunately, the phone chose that moment to ring shrilly, interrupting the dark haired man's train of thought.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Holmes barked sharply, and downstairs the phone was picked up, presumably by the good landlady. Watson leveled a stern gaze at his friend for his treatment of the woman, but the other simply turned away and knelt in one fluid movement before Gladstone, still prone on the carpet. He produced an unfamiliar looking leaf of a plant from his vest pocket and waved it in front of the dog's nose.

"Holmes," Watson finally sighed, "what are you doing?"

"It's a sensory stimulant, Watson," the other said matter-of-factly. "Not to worry, our dog shall be up and about in no time."

"My dog, Holmes."

"What?" the detective asked distractedly, absorbed as he was watching the dog's nose and legs start to twitch.

Watson stood and limped around so that Holmes was facing him. "_My_ dog," he repeated.

A brief pause as the brilliant mind seemed to reprocess what had been said in the last minutes. "Oh, yes of course. My mistake, old boy." He said it with that odd little half-smile that made Watson irritated with him and yet guilty all at once. "Do stop standing on the Prime Minister, doctor."

"Sorry," he muttered and obliged the request, moving off the newspaper clipping of the politician. Truthfully, he was thankful for the distraction. "So, what exactly are all these photos for?" He gestured around the room with his cane before bringing it back down to lean on.

"The photos, right," Holmes said, returning easily to their original topic. "Well, I have taken it upon myself to tirelessly study human expressions on all types of faces, in order to—"

"I'll say tirelessly study," the doctor and friend in him couldn't help but interject. "Have you by chance studied the bags under your eyes, Holmes?"

"You know my methods," the other returned, and was about to continue when Mrs. Hudson opened the door.

"Phone call for you, Mr. Holmes."

"Dear Mrs. Hudson," it didn't sound endearing at all, "how many times have I requested—"

"I've been told to let you know that it is a Madam Bones and that it is very important," the woman cut across smoothly. But Watson hardly noticed for he was too busy staring at his friend in shock. Holmes' face, as per usual, stayed impassive except for his dark shining eyes, which betrayed a certain surprise. A moment later, however, he was thundering down the stairs to the telephone.

"How he has the energy, I'll never know," Mrs. Hudson shook her head, straightening a few odds and ends around the room. But Watson hardly noticed, his mind was busy elsewhere. The last time he had heard the surname Bones…

Dr. John Hamish Watson had a secret, one that no one else knew except his greatest friend, Sherlock Holmes. For the detective shared that secret as well. They were both wizards.

As an eleven-year-old, he had found the idea preposterous as well, but deep down he couldn't deny that strange things would happen around him. The thing that had clinched it was when he and his brothers had been rough-housing in the yard one afternoon and one of them had fallen. John, ever the medic, had offered to look at it, but as he gently began to examine the scrape it healed up under his touch. Shortly afterward was when he received his letter.

He had been able to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry under a scholarship set up for muggleborns, as he was told he was one. John had been sorted into Hufflepuff, something that Holmes would later guess and then smirk about for an hour. And though he cherished those memories, Watson didn't think of Hogwarts as the best years of his life.

Because he didn't want to lose touch with his family and the world he was raised in, he kept up with his Muggle subjects, which left him far too busy to participate in any of the activities like Quidditch games or Hogsmeade visits. As such, this left him rather isolated from his peers. He didn't mind so much, because after he graduated from Hogwarts, Watson went on to attend medical school and then join the army.

Upon his return from war, the veteran was rather shocked by the conflict that was secretly brewing in the magical world. How things had deteriorated so quickly, he wasn't sure, but Watson was almost grateful he could escape into the relative stability of the Muggle world.

That stability, of course, was shattered the day he met Sherlock Holmes, and thankfully so. He didn't wish to live in fear for his life every minute, but at the same time he was quickly succumbing to the tedium of civilian life.

Holmes did not mention anything about the world of magic at first, and so Watson assumed that his new friend and flat mate was a Muggle like most everyone he knew at that point. This was perfectly alright by him. So imagine his surprise when Rufus Scrimgeour, then a senior Auror, had Apparated into their sitting room asking the supposedly non-magical detective to locate a missing witch, Marlene McKinnon.

From what he gathered from Holmes later, his friend was also muggleborn, but homeschooled; neither Mycroft nor Sherlock's mother had put much faith in the magic boarding school. Watson secretly thought that was for the best, as he had trouble picturing the brilliant detective at Hogwarts. The insufferable genius had enough trouble functioning in normal society.

The doctor's musings were cut short by the sound of his friend's returning footfalls.

"Well?" He asked the positively beaming man.

"A case," the other said simply, before turning to Mrs. Hudson. "Isn't there some tea you should be making or something?"

"Hmph!" The woman huffed before taking up her skirts again and exiting the room. For once Watson didn't scold the other, for he realized what Holmes was doing; they could not really talk about the phone call until their landlady left.

Holmes' landlady. Now _he_ was the one making mistakes. Fantastic.

"Madam Bones, our old friend from the Aurors and now Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, has requested my services on behalf of a Mr. Harry Potter."

"Harry Potter?" Watson asked, his eyebrows raising in near-disbelief. "That's not—"

"The famed Boy-Who-Lived," Holmes nodded in confirmation. Watson had heard all about the amazing, yet tragic, story of the Potter family on one of his infrequent trips to the Leaky Cauldron. "Odd, the use of past tense in the title. One might think they were trying to imply something. Yes, he survived the attack, but as he also continues to survive in the present the proper phrase would be the 'Boy-Who-_Lives_', I should think. Wouldn't you agree, Watson?" His friend rambled, and Watson blinked for a second.

"Hm? Right," he simply agreed.

"Do keep up, old boy," Holmes admonished anyway, and then poked at Gladstone with a toe. The dog finally blinked to awareness and got to its feet, trotting away from the self-made scientist. "This should prove most exciting," he continued louder, "a return to the world of magic. Quite nice of them to ask us back."

"Yes, especially since you were the one that got us barred from that world, Holmes," Watson kindly reminded the other, and then paused as all of the detective's words sunk in. "And pardon, but _us_? Whatever do you mean, Holmes?"

"I should think that obvious even for you, Watson," the other merely replied, causing Watson to simply shake his head.

"No, Holmes. Not this time."

"Well, aren't you interested?"

"Yes, but—"

"And wouldn't you like to visit your old school?"

"Well—"

"And wouldn't a magic case be quite the adventure?"

"It would, but—"

"Then why ever not?"

"Because, Holmes!" Watson finally broke in, stopping the other from continuing. "We're not partners anymore and how am I supposed to explain to Mary that I'm going to _Scotland_ on a case that I can't tell her about and won't be writing about when I get back?"

"You mean you haven't told Mary that you are a wizard?" There was no mistaking the absolute delight in Holmes' feigned horrified tone. His face clearly spoke of the glee he felt at knowing something about the doctor that his wife didn't know, _again_. "Dear me, I had known that secrets were kept in a marriage, but this is—"

"Stop it," Watson warned and his friend listened for once, choosing instead to look incredibly smug as he lit his pipe. They stood like that for a while, Holmes smoking while Watson struggled with his internal conflict. "What exactly has Mr. Potter hired us for?" He finally asked.

Holmes was already throwing things into his bag as he replied. "I can bring you up to speed on the train, but it mostly has to do with a tournament being held at the school."

"They never held tournaments when I was there," Watson remarked.

"They haven't for over a century, which makes it all the more important." As he said this, the detective bent to scoop up a single missing person's ad of a woman labeled '_Bertha Jorkins_'.

Watson decided to go and inform the landlady of their depature, hoping all the while that Mary would be understanding.

OoO

Watson had to admit that even after the years between his last days here and now, Hogwarts was still an awe inspiring sight. Of course, it was hard to appreciate when limping hurriedly after Holmes up the seven flights of stairs to the Headmaster's office. The first meeting went about as well as expected, what with the detective declaring everyone there suspects and already getting on the nerves of Bartemius Crouch, the man responsible for their near-banishment.

It was later, though, in their private rooms that things started to become interesting. Holmes, already working quickly to destroy any semblance of order to the place, immediately started in on his deductions.

"Mr. Potter clearly is the victim in this case; fear is the primary emotion driving him right now. He truly does believe this is an attempt on his life, a reasonable opinion."

"Is it? I think it's a bit—"

"Excessive?"

"Extreme," he said at the same time. Holmes tried again.

"Complex?"

"Convoluted," he merely battered back, and the other frowned slightly before finally saying,

"Flashy?"

"Flamboyant," Watson agreed at last.

"Magic, and those who use it, tends to be. Now, onto the facts. We can dismiss the foreigners out of hand."

"Really? I thought that Karkaroff was a bit dodgy," Watson couldn't help but point out. In fact, he was pretty sure he remembered hearing of the man as—"

"A Death Eater he was, but no longer. Igor Karkaroff supplied names of his fellow members in exchange for release from Azkaban. He is a coward, and would not attempt such a grand scheme as this.

"What he, the Madame Maxime, and their students all have in common, however, is their desire for victory. Adding a second Hogwarts champion would be counterproductive to their goal. Thus, none of them are the culprits."

"So we're looking at someone from England who stands to gain something if Harry Potter were to be killed in the tournament?" The poor boy was only fourteen.

"Precisely, Watson. Following that logic, we can also rule out Diggory. The boy is smart, but not cunning, and has no connection to Mr. Potter other than that they were both Seekers for their house Quidditch teams. This can be inferred by their slight builds, quick eyes, and distant familiarity with each other."

"Right," said Watson, only grinning at the amazing skill his friend possessed. "So it's one of the teachers or the remaining two judges?"

"Most likely," Holmes replied.

"Well I highly doubt it's the Headmaster," he said, "The old man is as friendly as they come."

"Oh, Albus Dumbledore is very cunning, make no mistake, Watson," Holmes informed him, and again he looked at the other in disbelief. Holmes continued, "He has a great amount of interest in our Mr. Potter, but he needs him alive. Leaving our primary suspects as follows: Professors Snape and Moody, Bagman, and Crouch." Having finished unpacking, the detective started to pace the floor, and Watson settled in to listen.

"First, Bartemius Crouch: A judge of the tournament, and one of its organizers. He has the ability to make it as dangerous as possible for our client. But, Crouch is nothing if not obsessed with the law. Mr. Potter holds little consequence to him, so the likelihood that he would go to such great lengths to kill him is not great. However, it should be noted that Crouch is under tremendous stress at the moment; most likely internal. He is hiding something, and it has gone wrong. A nervous twitch gives away his unease, his particularly snappish attitude betrays his self-anger and fraying nerves, and his general paranoia—quieted down since the war—is beginning to act up again.

"Ludo Bagman: A former Quidditch player, as evidenced by his severely bruised face and the weight that he has put on rapidly since quitting such a physically demanding sport. A chronic gambler as well; he sizes up each of the champions when he sees them and keeps a record of his bets in a notebook in his breast pocket." Watson couldn't help but feel a small twinge of sympathy for the man, as he knew what a slippery slope that was. "His debt is spiraling out of control, which has led to his increased interest in the tournament. Bagman's plan is to make a large bet on the outcome to pay them off. As such, he could be purposefully adding a champion for his benefit, but this is unlikely. He would choose someone older with more experience, and adding a fourth champion only increases the odds that he will lose his bet.

"Severus Snape: Also a former Death Eater, but kept out of prison by our host, Professor Dumbledore. The man is not a teacher by nature and hates children, but the Headmaster is keeping him for some purpose—remember what I said about his cunning, Watson. His dislike of Mr. Potter is clearly evident by simply observing his expression, but it runs deeper than a lack of tolerance for children. It could be that he is angry at the defeat of his former master, but highly improbable. More likely, Mr. Potter reminds the good Potions Master of someone or something from his past, which is both sordid and painful to him. Ridding himself of the boy would stop these memories, however as a skilled potioneer, he could much more easily poison him.

"And lastly, Alastor Moody: A retired Auror noted for his nearly unparalleled paranoia. Not as mad as many claim, the man has the sharp mind and intellect capable of undertaking such a scheme. But—" and here, Holmes suddenly pouted, "he has no visible motive. He obviously only met Mr. Potter at the start of term, hardly enough time to build a personal grudge against him that large. And though quite stern with the boy's father, Junior Auror James Potter, it is still a very slim chance that this would be some sort of revenge ploy. Indeed, the only motive that holds up at all—this is a longshot, mind you—would be an attempt to draw out the boy's godfather from hiding: Sirius Black, escaped convict and mass-murderer."

Watson had remained patiently silent as always through Holmes' monologue, but here he couldn't help spluttering, "_What_?"

"I did say it was a longshot," Holmes grumbled, but kept up his pacing. "Sirius Black escaped from Azkaban prison last year, and has been on the loose since. There was, however, a confrontation between him, Mr. Potter, two other students, Moody's predecessor, and Snape at the end of the term. Since then, Mr. Potter has insisted that Black is an innocent man. We can then make the assumption that he is also in contact with him, perhaps knows his whereabouts."

"And he hasn't gone to the authorities?" Watson gaped. He'd judged the Gryffindor boy to be a sensible sort, but this was madness!

"Mr. Black is the only bit of family Mr. Potter has left, aside from his relatives who are emotionally and mentally abusive as they are in fear of magic. Though it should be noted that his cousin, much larger in size, was at one time quite physical with him as well."

"So Black played on that to gain his trust? And now Moody's using that to trick Black to come back into the open?"

"It is…a possibility. A most difficult case, Watson," Holmes finally stopped his pacing and stood by the desk, flipping once more through their client's file provided by the Headmaster. Watson decided he would take a look at it himself in the morning, as he tried and failed to suppress a yawn. Meanwhile his friend snapped the folder shut, nodding decisively to himself.

"Yes," Holmes murmured, likely more to himself, "it all comes down to who kidnapped and murdered Bertha Jorkins. Goodnight, Watson."

"Goodnight, Holmes," he replied tiredly to his friend's retreating back. It was only once he was comfortably ensconced within the covers of his four poster bed that the doctor asked aloud in bewilderment, "Who is Bertha Jorkins?"

**So now you have an idea of what Holmes is thinking. I hope I did this right; I really tried to make the dialogue and interaction between the two of them genuine and in character. That and it took quite a bit of effort trying to write out Holmes' leaps in deduction on the case. Technically I know you all know who did it, but I think the fun here is watching one of the best try to puzzle it out, just like we all did when first reading _Goblet of Fire_.**

**Please, please, please let me know how I did! I'm so grateful for the favorites, alerts, and C2s, but I'd really like some feedback. Also, if you have any suggestions at all for things that you want to happen, I'd be happy to take them into consideration. I mean…Sherlock Holmes is at Hogwarts. What kind of chaos will he cause? You can help decide!**

**Thanks so much for reading, and please review!**


	5. Chapter 5

**After a long period of writer's block where I had half the chapter completed, I've decided to finally finish and update. Thanks so much for the reviews and other support, it really means a lot to me!**

**GoldenSteel: Yes, I very much think that Harry would attempt to convince Holmes of Sirius' innocence…that might not show up just yet, though. Harry and the others are still trying to get used to our favorite detective.**

**Williams: I'm glad that you find my characterizations satisfactory! They're all so much fun to write, but challenging as well. I felt like Bertha's disappearance was just the kind of thing Holmes would pick up on.**

**ShadowedHand: I'm happy you're interested in this, and yeah, it's a bit difficult to make these two series work together with the different timelines and all. I'm doing my best, and thank you!**

**narutofan020: I'm not sure why either, but I'm glad you decided to check it out!**

**Maximus Potter: Here's the update!**

**This chapter, still Watson's POV, picks up after the events in Chapter Three when Harry has his first real conversation with Holmes. I hope you all continue to enjoy the story!**

**Dobby's Polka-Dotted Sock**

**Chapter Five**

The door of their quarters had just snapped shut behind Mr. Potter and already Holmes was striding for the exit himself.

"We shall speak with the Deputy Headmistress first, Watson." So the two made their way to the teacher's lounge. There, they found Professor McGonagall enjoying a spot of tea with her colleague, Professor Sprout.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," the dignified Transfiguration instructor greeted. "How may I help you?"

"I was merely curious, Professor, as to what happens to the assignments that your students hand into you."

"The assignments?" She asked, clearly confused by this seemingly random query.

"Yes, when a student hands in a written assignment to be graded, what does the professor do with it?"

"I would say it depends upon the teacher. I myself keep all of them."

"I pass them back to the students," Professor Sprout offered.

"Most of the others leave them to be disposed of with the other rubbish," McGonagall concluded. Holmes nodded, eyes closed, and stood there a moment. Finally, his eyes snapped open with a start.

"Thank you, Professors, you have been most helpful." And then he abruptly strode from the room, leaving Watson to shrug at the two women before following.

"And how exactly was that helpful?" Watson asked his friend once he caught up. "The evidence we're looking for has likely been destroyed."

"Yes, very clever of our adversary. But, the professors were indeed useful. Or rather, Professor Sprout was."

"Sprout? She hardly spoke ten words, Holmes!" Sometimes he could feel nothing but bewilderment for the detective, and he was supposedly the one who knew him best.

They had ended up back at their quarters, and Holmes went back to the pieces of parchment he had been talking with Harry Potter over, picking up the original and pressing it to his nose, inhaling deeply.

"Hm…certainly the scent of smoke, burnt parchment…but something more. I seem to be woefully rusty regarding recognition of magical smells, old friend," his friend admitted, and Watson knew it was a serious blow to the man's ego to do so. He couldn't help but feel privileged that he was the one Holmes confided such things in.

"I'm sure it will come to you. The first task isn't for quite some time yet," he reminded the other man.

"Yes, I do wonder what it shall be. A test of courage, the judges said. And likely something of a spectacle. An arena, I should think. Our Mr. Potter and his fellow champions will likely find themselves battling some type of ferocious beast." This deduction seemed to restore some of Holmes' confidence, even as he absently straightened the portrait of a certain Woman.

"You really think they'll put school children up against that?" He asked, slightly disgusted by the thought. That was part of the reason he had chosen to be a doctor and not a healer; the disregard that wizards seemed to have for the safety of themselves and others sometimes astounded him to a sickening degree.

"I'm quite sure. Nothing to worry about, doctor, I'm sure they'll set up some necessary precautions." Something made him suspect Holmes was enjoying his worrying and was trying to wind him up on purpose. The things he would do just for the fun of it, honestly. "Well, nothing for it. Watson, I need you to ask Professor Sprout for samples of each of the plants she has growing in the greenhouses."

"Every plant, Holmes? There's at least three greenhouses from what I remember," he couldn't help but point out, though Watson somehow knew his friend wouldn't care.

"It is essential to the case, my good man, surely you can at least understand that."

"Professor Sprout likely has a class soon, I can't just go barging in."

"Then after classes."

"That's dinner, Holmes! Not everyone starves themselves like you do. And speaking of which, you're eating by tomorrow," he added firmly, and the detective grimaced.

"I do not eat—"

"Yes, you do. When a case is long-term, you eat."

"I'll eat tomorrow if you get those samples by tonight."

"Deal," Watson sighed, it was the best he was going to get from his friend.

OoO

When Watson returned rather late that night from the greenhouses, arms laden with countless plant samples, it was to a rather odd sight. Or rather, sound. He could hear the screeches and wails of the violin from within their rooms, that was nothing unusual. What was unusual was the very oddly dressed woman alternatively plugging her ears and yelling at the door.

"You are being much too loud! I am _trying_ to gaze into the beyond, but I cannot do so if—"

"May I help you, miss?" He asked, though not sure if he really wanted to get involved in whatever this was.

"Oh, I did not see you there. Now, you are? No, no, don't tell me." The woman's eyelids shut behind very large glasses and she appeared to be thinking quite hard. "You are here to help—with the case. You and the other are very close—brothers, yes?" Her eyes snapped open with a hopeful expression.

"Sorry," Watson said, smiling as he shook his head. "That would be Mycroft. I'm just a partner: Dr. John Watson." He would have offered his hand, but his arms were rather full.

The woman was flushed red in embarrassment. "Oh, yes, I see now. I apologize, normally I am much, much better, but my connection to the Inner Eye is a little off what with all this—" A long, drawn out screech ripped through her sentence, and Watson wondered whether it had been planned. "Oh!" She huffed, stomping her foot almost like a child.

"The musician is Sherlock Holmes," Watson informed her, and then reached forward, rapping on the door with his cane. "Holmes, open up! I've brought those samples you asked for."

Seconds later the door was wrenched open, the detective practically beaming at the sight of all those plants. "Excellent, excellent, Watson, set them on the coffee table." He was ushered in by his excited friend, and just managed to stop him from slamming the door in the poor woman's face.

"Holmes, first you need to apologize."

"What?" The other looked quite perplexed at this, which caused their sort-of guest to bristle slightly.

"Your playing has been keeping—sorry, what did you say your name was?" He wasn't too sure if she had mentioned it at all, really.

She drew herself up and began, "My name is—"

"No, no, don't tell me," Holmes interrupted, and Watson felt even more certain that the man really had been waiting just inside the door, listening in. "Sybil Trelawney: Divination Professor at Hogwarts for just over thirteen years. That would be quite the accomplishment if anyone actually considered your subject worth teaching. You live in the tower just to the left and rarely venture from it because you say the real world clouds your Inner Eye. But that is not the real reason; you are afraid for your life. This would sound silly coming from someone of seemingly little consequence and who everyone thinks is a fraud, except you're not completely. You have made at least one prediction, of which you have no memory of, but you suspect it is the reason you were hired. Not that that gives you much comfort; you claim you spend your evenings gazing into the beyond, but judging by the rather strong smell of sherry on your breath, you merely attempt to drown your loneliness and misery. Quite the wretched existence, wouldn't you say, Watson?"

It was bad enough when Holmes did things like this, but did he always have to be dragged in for a second opinion?

Before he couldn't so much as give an "Er…", however, Professor Trelawney had launched herself at the detective. He at first worried it was an attack, but he needn't have; the professor merely clutched at Holmes' shirt and sobbed openly.

"Good heavens, madam!" Holmes spoke, clearly as surprised as he was and much more uncomfortable.

"Y- you- you understand! Th- thank you," she said over and over, and it took a minute for both to realize what she was expressing was _gratitude_. "No one else here understands—but you saw it all! Y- you saw me, you understand!"

"Well now, do have a seat," Holmes guided her as gently as he could to the couch in the front room, and Watson had to smirk a little at the man's brief display of kindness. "Something strong, I think, Watson."

"Right," he replied, limping off to the cupboard.

OoO

What felt like hours to Watson, but in reality was probably only a short time, Holmes and the professor were giggling like children over their drinks, talking together about some sort of nonsense, and just generally being too loud to allow him to sleep. So he sat up with them, watching them drain each bottle dry, and wondering when it could possibly end. Professor Trelawney had already been partaking in sherry before coming to their doorstep, surely she would have to stop soon?

But it was early morning before the woman quite literally dropped off onto their sofa, causing the detective a round of hyena-like laughter. Watson decided to remind the other of his presence by easing him up off the chair and begin to both walk and carry the dark-haired man to his bed. It would be no good to let the man doze off in some uncomfortable position as that would only make him twice as irritable and childish in the morning. Besides, he felt he had to do everything in his power to make sure Holmes got somewhere around the proper amount of sleep.

He finally managed to drag his feet into his own room and fall wearily onto the bed, quite aware of the long days to come.

OoO

"I beg your pardon?"

"Please, Madam, for the sake of the investigation all that is required is a simple answer." Holmes, bright-eyed and focused upon the case as ever, watched the hospital matron expectantly for her answer.

"I hardly see how fluxweed has anything to do with the Tournament, much less where I get it from. At any rate, Professor Sprout is the expert in plants, Mr. Holmes."

"I assure you, Madam Pomfrey, it is an essential piece of information. Professor Sprout has a class at the moment, and I do believe I have troubled her enough for the time being."

Watson couldn't help but smirk at that, remembering how long it had taken the poor herbologist to gather up samples of every plant in her greenhouses.

"Well, if I recall correctly, she collects it near the Forbidden Forest, it grows naturally. But if you wish to know more, I would recommend talking to Professors Snape or Hagrid."

Snape. The doctor found that quite interesting that one of the primary suspects in this case seemed to be tied to whatever trail of evidence his friend was currently following.

"I see. Thank you for your assistance," Holmes replied and swept from the Hospital Ward in his usual manner. When Watson caught up, the detective was making a beeline for the stairs.

"So, are we off to have a chat with Professor Snape, then?" He inquired.

"Good heavens, no. Not yet. The Potions Master is something of an enigma, Watson, and I am quite sure he enjoys being so. We must take great care in approaching him, and only when the facts are laid out plainly. Now, however, we are paying a visit to Professor Hagrid."

A short time later Watson tapped on the door of the groundskeeper-turned-professor's hut with his cane, immediately eliciting a series of booming barks.

"Back, Fang, back!" Came the gruff voice of Rubeus Hagrid before the wooden door was pulled open. "Hullo!" The giant man smiled in welcome at his visitors. "Somethin' I can help yeh two with?"

"We just have a few questions, my good man. Sherlock Holmes," Holmes shook the other man's large hand, and Watson watched with some amusement as his friend was bobbed up and down. Then it was his turn, his cane proving quite useless in keeping him grounded.

"John Watson, yeah? I remember yeh from yer 'ogwarts days. Yeh was always by yer lonesome." The huge man observed. He could feel his friend's eyes on him, and Watson knew Holmes was likely storing away this latest piece of information on his partner for later use. "Come in!"

The two followed the man inside his home, which proved to be a little one room apartment, functioning as kitchen, dining space, and bedroom altogether. It seemed to Watson almost shameful compared to what luxury Hagrid's colleagues and pupils enjoyed at the castle, but he felt perhaps that the man was quite happy here. They sat themselves around the table and a large boarhound dog came to inspect the newcomers, choosing eventually to rest his head on his master's lap.

"So, what can I do fer yeh?"

"Well you see, Madam Pomfrey referred us to you as I had some questions regarding the procurement of supplies. Mostly herbs or other ingredients." Hagrid nodded, and after a pause, Holmes added, "Specifically fluxweed or knotgrass."

"Oh yeah, well, Professor Sprout usually collects the fluxweed from round the Forbidden Forest. But the knotgrass, I have ta go inta the Forest fer that."

"I see. But it grows naturally in the wild. In abundance?"

"Oh sure. It's not 'ard ta find."

"And how does Hogwarts get supplies for potions that come from animals, such as skins or horns?"

"Ah, those have ta be ordered specifically by Professor Snape. I think 'e gets them from some Apothecary on Diagon Alley." Hagrid nodded once, quite certain of his answer.

"Well I think that's everything that I need. Thank you for your help, Professor." Holmes stood and left again, leaving Watson to politely refuse the teacher's offer of food.

"This is turning out to be simpler than I thought," Watson remarked to the detective.

"Oh?" Was all Holmes said.

"Well, whatever lead you're following seems to be pointing right at Professor Snape. It seems to me, Holmes, that he had something to do with that parchment with Mr. Potter's name."

"That's where we differ, old boy. To my view, Professor Snape is merely an unwitting enabler."

His friend would speak no more on the subject, and so the doctor was left to ponder the man's words all the way up to the castle.

**I am so, so sorry for the delay. Honestly I just hit a huge writer's block and was completely stuck. I think I'll just post what I have now so that you all finally get an update. At any rate, I hope you enjoyed it and I am completely open to suggestions on what kind of antics Sherlock Holmes will get up to at Hogwarts. Thanks for reading and please review!**


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